Treason's Shore (7 page)

“He only wrote once. Said they lost. Never wrote again. I tried to find out more.”

“Hold to it,” Brun shouted. Her voice was faint. “Hold to it! Demand. An. Accounting.”

She bent her head into the wind and fought her way to the door, Vra Seigmad following close enough to be whipped by her skirts and hood. Brun Durasnir held the door by main force so they could both slip inside.

Brun Durasnir raised a hand to halt Vra Seigmad there on the stairs, where she shivered, counting slowly nine times nine. They could not be seen together. Everyone would be whispering, trying to discover what they talked about. Everyone. And maybe even fitting words into their mouths in speculation.

Vra Seigmad was grateful to Brun Durasnir for sparing her that. She was also grateful for the water-repellent magic on her cloak and hood, the heat-retaining magic woven into the wool, as she ran down the stairs.

The tunnel leading to the Hall of Judgment was full of people, but as always, the moment people saw her black cloak and long hood with the Seigmad colors in the tassel, they deferred. She set a brisk pace, unhindered until she reached a group from Tharfan House spread across the tunnel and walking at a deliberately sedate pace. As the former Senior House, they still claimed precedence, and as there was no accepted king, Vra Seigmad must drop behind those long, arrogantly lengthened pointed hoods, the silken tassels of silver and white swinging to the backs of their owners’ knees.

From long habit people’s voices dropped when they entered the Hall of Judgment, which alone of all Venn buildings was not decorated with rich color. The groins curving up to hold the vaulted ceiling were bare white marble, reminding Vra Seigmad of clean-picked ribs. In the galleries sat ten of twelve senior House Hyarls, the Council of Elders, the Senior Guild Skalts, and the senior dags in sober blue. Everyone else ended up on the general floor. In this room the kings had spoken, but now the Council of Elders had declared a Frasadeng, a gathering of the Houses, and though everyone could speak, the horror of recent condemnations seemed to grip them all.

The only marks of bright color were the ceiling of blue stippled with ancient stars, and the banner of the golden Great Tree of Ydrasal hanging over the empty throne, nine and ninety handsbreadths tall. More subtle were the great blocks of marble building the dais in three steps.

Whispers ran round the room, quick as fire through tinder, when behind the dais the massive doors, carved into a semblance of a tree uncounted centuries before, began to swing open. The few whispers ceased.

Through the doors marched a row of Erama Krona dressed in neutral gray. White indicated duty to a king, black was reserved for a Blood Hunt. When they wore gray, they would answer only to the oldest king alive, who would speak for the Council of Elders.

And the previous king was alive, just short of ninety years old. Helped by gray Erama Krona, he walked out where he had last ruled thirty years previously, but he did not sit in the throne. There was a low curule chair after the old formal mode, cushioned for fragile bones.

The cold ring of iron-reinforced heels on stone brought everyone’s eyes to the door. As the Erama Krona took up guard positions around the dais, out strode Prince Rajnir, dressed in silver armor over white, the only color the gold of the Tree on his chest plate. Flanking him to left and right were the equally tall forms of Stalna Hyarl Durasnir (also dressed in his battle armor, which glinted in the candlelight) and Dag Erkric, who wore the blue-on-white of the Dag of all the Venn.

The king said, his voice reedy with his effort to be heard, “Prince Rajnir, Breseng-chosen candidate for king. The council has convened the Frasadeng. In this chamber you are answerable to all, and all will be granted the chance to speak. It is for you to begin.”

Prince Rajnir stepped forward, bringing his hands together and then outward in the sign of peace. He was tall and even at a distance the deep blue of his eyes was remarkable. His hair had darkened to the color of ripened corn, and the bones of his face had hardened, but otherwise he seemed the same young prince who had taken ship for the south years before.

“O king-father of us all,” he said, his voice clear and strong; he used the respectful old mode. “Skalts and Houses, Oneli and Hilda. Dags, artisans, and people. Last the thrall. You have heard only that we return with empty hands instead of bringing the rich grains and the fine steel of the Marlovans. We would have succeeded. We nearly did succeed, so my commanders assure me.”

He paused as whispers susurrated through the hall, amplified by the curved stone.

“But.” Silence fell. “But we were betrayed by one of our own, in a traitorous action that broke all law and custom. Because of the actions of this traitor, many of our people died, and we reached an impasse. It was then that the news came of the death of the king, and I deemed it best to return.”

Again a hissing of whispers.

Prince Rajnir lifted his chin. “The homeland must always come first. I made a vow to the Tree: once the Land of the Venn is again at peace, I shall sail to the south again to strengthen our force at Ymar, and from there we shall prevail.”

The king bowed his head, then lifted it.

“Can you name this traitor who acts against the king’s will?”

“I can.” Prince Rajnir faced the Hall. “Born as Jazsha Signi Sofar, she was a family outcast before becoming a Sea Dag, known as Dag Signi.”

Voices rose in exclaimations; the king lifted a hand, and one of the silent guards struck his spear on the stone three times, the sound cutting through the hubbub.

“I further call for a formal Blood Hunt, that this traitor may be brought before the seat of judgment.”

The king said, “Prince Rajnir, have you witnesses to attest to the truth of what you say?”

“I so attest,” Dag Erkric said, hands open, head bowed. “Though this dag was one of my own. I witnessed countless acts of magic.” His voice sounded tired, filled with sorrow. “You will hear them all when the time comes.”

“I so attest,” said a young dag favored by Erkric. “She interfered with our protective wards when we attacked the castle at Sala Varadhe.”

His presence barely caused a stir; all knew he would speak at the command of his master.

But then Stalna Hyarl Fulla Durasnir spoke. “I so attest. I witnessed a single act of magic, one that lies outside of the duties of a sea dag.”

This time the reaction was louder, and again the spear struck the marble.

The king raised his hands, palm out in the mode of it-shall-be. “Then with the concurrence of the Council of Elders, I will enjoin the Erama Krona to oath-bind a team to the Blood Hunt, and we shall reconvene when we have secured the accused.”

The council spoke, one at a time, each saying, “Aye.”

The old king put his hands together. “So be it.”

Chapter Four

I
NDA, Tdor, and Signi set out from Tenthen Castle two days after the wedding. Everyone at Tenthen gathered outside in the cold to cheer and drum as the outriders blew the trumpet calls for a Harskialdna and Harandviar. Even the horses seemed excited, tossing their heads, flicking their tails, ready for the charge through the gate.

Inda raised his fist the way his father used to. It thrilled him with pride, but hard on that suffusion of pride was a strong pang of regret, even guilt.
Tanrid should be sitting here, fist raised in the signal
. Inda looked back, and his breath caught at the sudden, sharp longing to be standing between the gates, right where Whipstick was.

Tdor missed it. She even missed the silent pain to be seen in three faces, Whipstick’s, Noren’s, and in that of Inda’s mother. She felt enough pain of her own as her moist eyes blurred the outlines of the women she’d grown up with, all standing along the sentry walk above the gate.

Signi’s empathetic gaze observed Inda’s and Tdor’s expressions of yearning.

Then Inda opened his hand and pointed. He dropped the rein and his horse leaped into the gallop, freshly shod hooves clattering.

The rest followed. They raced through the gates, horns blowing, shouts carrying almost to the lakeside.

The ride in strict rank order barely lasted until the castle’s towers were out of sight. With a long journey ahead, the first thought must be of the animals. Inda slowed up to talk to the Riders so he could catch up on their family news and share local war stories, as he’d had little time to do so during their frenzied preparations. He was relieved to discover that his pair of King’s Runners, young men who looked absolutely nothing alike but happened to share the same first name (Ramond), had fit in with the Riders enough to be called by their nicknames, Twin Ain and Twin Tvei.

Tenthen Castle’s concerns fell behind with the castle itself, except in Noren’s heart.

Tdor thought ahead. From what she’d seen in the two days Inda had been home, people accepted that Signi was not an enemy because Inda willed it so. But that just made her a nonenemy, a Venn to be stared at when she wasn’t looking, speculated about, and walked around when she happened to come near.

When it came time to camp, Inda and Signi sat down together in the unconsciousness of long habit. Well, that was better than Signi sitting all alone in her tent. As they ate and talked about the next day’s journey, Tdor wondered what to expect in sleeping arrangements. Tdor had her own tent. Was that second tent the King’s Runners set up for Signi or Inda? With Inda’s return after exile her lifelong love for him had flared from the steady warmth of childhood into adult heat. When camp broke up, Tdor rose, hoping to have Inda to herself in her bedroll.

She had to fight the anger-burn of jealousy when Inda absently followed Signi into the other tent. Tdor heard the Venn’s soft voice, “No, Inda. Tomorrow, maybe, but you should go in with Tdor first.”

Inda came right out, grinning when he spotted Tdor. He took her hand when she held hers out. So Tdor knew she was not rejected, disliked, or despised.

Yet Signi was no mere habit. Over the stretch of days that followed, Tdor observed the tender, absent twinings of fingers, the way Inda unconsciously leaned against Signi when sharing a mat at campfire time. Those, like Signi’s drifting gaze wherever Inda happened to be, those were signs of love. Since—so far, Tdor always resolutely reminded herself—she didn’t want a favorite of her own, she was just going to have to learn to share.

As the journey progressed Signi made it her business to see that Inda shared his nights equally. And because Tdor noticed that the Marlovans tended to move around Signi as if she were a rock in the path, she made it her business to set the tone and topics of campfire talk so that subjects were not exclusive of the Venn dag. Most of the time these were successful, except for once.

“Fareas Iofre once brought us an Old Sartoran taeran. You know this word, right?” Tdor asked as the Runners collected the bowls to be washed and stashed.

Signi leaned forward. “It is the word for scrolls written in the ancient form of Sartoran.” Her fingers gestured gracefully from high to low, indicating vertical script.

Tdor smiled. “Well, it turned out to have been translated by the Venn centuries ago, and we’ve always wondered if they changed a couple of words: ‘dena Yeresbeth.’ ”

Signi’s eyes widened. “That is Old Sartoran,” she murmured. “There was no change by us. But we do not truly comprehend that phrase, except as a reference to the Blessed Three.”

It was Tdor’s turn for surprise. “Blessed Three?”
Blessed by who?
“Blessing” was an ill-understood formality also dating back before records were kept. Tdor had been taught that the meaning was akin to a formal approval from authorities beyond family or even government. Possibly beyond time and space, bestowed by beings such as angels. “Blessings are ineffable beneficence,” Fareas-Iofre had said once, causing Tdor and Joret to go up on the castle roof on the first clear night in order to speculate which of the stars might be home to such beings.

Signi gazed into the fire, then looked up. “We understand ‘dena Yeresbeth’ be indicative of a Seer—the ‘shape of clouds of light’ is how the Sartorans described one who sees beyond the confines of the physical world.” Firelight beat unsteadily on her face, the shadows shifting her contours to young and old, old and young.

Yet another surprise, more like astonishment. “You mean ghosts?” Tdor’s mind jolted back to her wedding day, when Inda had said something about Signi and ghosts.

“Ghosts.” Signi whispered the word, then gave a quick, stricken look Inda’s way, the first time Tdor had ever seen her move inadvertently.

Inda stirred, his hand coming up to rub over his head in the gesture Tdor had learned meant discomfort, even distress. Tdor’s lips were just shaping the words “I’ve always wanted to know about ghosts” but she quashed the impulse.

Signi made a quick gesture, half appeal, half aversion, as she said in a low voice, “Seers witness beyond the confines of the world. Some only See once, others are born Seeing a world we cannot perceive.”